Cracked Light
by Missing Thief
Summary: Watson is told Sherlock Holmes is dead, and while he mourns over his death something strange happens. One-shot.


_**This is my very first fanfic and I really wanted to publish it. So please tell me what you think about it! :)  
I apologize for any grammar or spelling mistakes found in the story (english isn't my mother language). **_

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**Cracked Light.**

Watson sat by the window looking at the crowded street, but never really looking. His now gloomy eyes weren't focused in the scene that was displayed before him, but instead they traveled over and over again a few hours ago, just when the tragedy had occurred.

He had been out for a considerable part of the afternoon, just taking a walk; trying to get away from the dreadful atmosphere of Baker Street. He hadn't seen Holmes in the morning, nor did he the night before. He wasn't worried; he had assumed that his fellow-lodger was on a case. After nearly two years, it was something that he had to be used to, but every now and then, he sat for hours facing the fire and would attempt to read a novel, but he'd never get past the first paragraph, because his mind was not on the book but thinking of his friend and hoping he would return in one piece. But now he knows that Sherlock Holmes is never coming back again.

When he returned to his lodgings, Inspector Lestrade and two constables awaited him in the study. Their faces had a grave expression written upon. Watson immediately acknowledged something was wrong. News are delivered and the doctor's heart sinks in an ocean of the purest grief. Lestrade leaves, and with him the glory of a king departs too.

He feels guilty, even though he knows is not his fault. He thinks about what happened and tears start pooling around his eyes for the tenth time that day. Mrs. Hudson enters the room, and he hides his face from her. The old woman leaves the tray on the table and pretends she didn't notice, but she knows. Mrs. Hudson exits the room and the doctor is left alone with his painful thoughts once again. He's confused; he tries to convince himself that his friend is still alive, still out there waiting for him. Watson lets out a humorless laugh. ''He's already dead'' he says out loud. His voice is broken. He doesn't want to give up, but he can't help it.

He sat by the window, now he has the emblematic Stradivarius between his hands. He caresses it and the tunes that his fellow used to regale him with start playing once again in the back of his mind. He stays like that for a while, motionless and listening intently at the fading chords his tired brain tries to remember; until he decides it's enough. With a sudden burst of anger he stands and throws the blameless instrument across the room. Almost immediately he regrets his actions and runs towards where the violin fell. He breathes in with difficulty; his friend's precious comrade is broken. He stands slowly from the floor, holding the fragile fiddle as if it were his own life.

''Good Lord… What have I done? What have I done?'' he mutters to himself as he makes futile attempts to put the pieces back together. After several minutes, he finally gives up. He sits still on the floor observing every single object inside the room. The mess that before annoyed him to no end and he wanted to get rid of, was now some sort of sacred relic and he wouldn't dare to move a single thing. His eyes started wandering around the room and they fall on The Woman's photograph. He knew how much it meant to Holmes as memories from that particular adventure appear in his mind. He then recalled that very first case that he and Sherlock had worked together. He remembers every single word that his companion had told him, and how amused he found himself when he saw the Great Detective at work. He realized his life was a lot like most of the novels he used to read. His train of thought wandered that direction as innumerable stories and experiences crowded together in his brain...

He hears the door opens. He expects to see Mrs. Hudson appear behind the door, but instead, Sherlock Holmes himself emerges from the hall. He ignores Watson, grabs his pipe, lit it and sat in his arm-chair. Watson stares blankly at his companion. He can't believe his eyes. He keeps looking at him for a few seconds, but he won't dare say a word because he's afraid if he does it then his friend would disappear as if were some sort of illusion.

Minutes pass by and the silence grows thicker and thicker. None of them has produced a single sound, and while Holmes sits smoking his clay-pipe on a calmed fashion, Watson's mind is racing. His heart is beating so hard, he feels it would jump out of his chest. ''How is that possible?'' he asks himself over and over again. He was informed personally by Inspector Lestrade that his dearest friend was found dead and now he sees him walk through the door? It was absolutely foolish. He shakes his head as if it would take the senseless thoughts away.

He is determined. He is going to speak. Watson stood, took a deep breath and just when his mouth was about to mutter the first word, something happened. And all of sudden he was again in the room's floor. The door was locked from the inside and everything looked exactly the same, but different, because Sherlock Holmes was gone forever. Or was he? On top of the ever-so eternal arm-chair was the clay-pipe with tobacco burning inside...

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_**Hoped it was not that bad! Hehe! Again: let me know what you think. Please!**_


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